Cullen's Promise
by Unabashed Dreams
Summary: Cullen can't help but be worried about the Herald after she endangered her life to save many. This short one-shot (turned two-shots?), takes place after the attack on Haven and toward the beginning of reaching Skyhold.
1. Chapter 1

Haven is under attack and the Herald of Andraste is staying behind to ensure the survival of the others–something Cullen is not happy about. He also knows he cannot stop her from doing it. He tells himself that this worry stems only from the fact that she bares the Mark, and that the Inquisition needs her. He doesn't know her that well. Not really. At one point, he thought that maybe there might have been–that emshe/em might have been–but, no, he mustn't think of that. He mustn't think of the side glances and the shy smiles and the way his adrenaline coursed through his veins when she was around. The thoughts of "might have been's" would surely get them all killed. And so he let her go.

Maker, help him . . .

He let her go.

The Inquisition survived, thanks to her, but at what cost? He saw the dragon–was it an Archdemon? He saw the trebuchet fire, and he saw the avalanche that buried Haven. At their makeshift camp in the mountains, Cullen paces. He was told by Leliana and Josephine that sending a search party for the Herald could prove detrimental as they had no way of knowing if she was even alive. It was an argument that was heard around the camp. Deep down, as a warrior and soldier, Cullen knew they were both right. But as a man … the "might have been's" continued to play out before him; burning him like white hot coals–sending his skin racing and unable to stand still.

Sitting in front of the fire, he stares at the flames. He knows sleep is pointless.

He can only think of her and where she might be.

He gets to his feet.

Seeing his intent, Cassandra and Varric come after him. They, too, want to look for her. Cullen lets his gratitude and relief show–a gratitude and relief that far surpasses that of what an ordinary advisor should display. He knows that it might get some of them talking, but he is also unable to care about what others might be thinking in that moment. She's what matters now. He doesn't wait to hear more from them, just turns and continues making his trek back up the mountain path from which they had come. His heart is beating like a war drum. His skin feels as if it had been struck by lightning. Would he find her? Would she be alive?

Maker, let her be alive.

No one speaks, not even Varric, as they walk. The silence brings him both comfort and trepidation. The snow nearly reaches the top of his boots with each step he takes, and he begins to wonder … even if she had survived Haven, how could she possibly survive the freezing snow? He casts the thought aside with a sharp jerk of his head. He couldn't bear the idea of her being out there cold and alone–it's too painful. Instead, he tucks his chin down as he forges his way forward, the determination to find her stronger than before.

As he comes to the peak of the pass, he sees a shadow in the distance. His heart races. His steps quicken. He tells himself not to get his hopes up–that it could be a wolf, a bear, or something far more sinister. He places a hand on the hilt of his sword to serve as a reminder. But the closer he gets, the more certain he becomes.

He let's out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

It's her! Did he yell that out loud? He had. Could they feel his relief and elation mixed with the anxiety and longing in those two words? He was sure they could feel it surging from his body . . . how could they not? Another thought to be cast aside. He breaks into a run–a feat in the deep snow. Ahead, she falls to her knees and the closer he gets, the better he can see her. His heart plummets. She is exhausted, injured, and frozen. He reaches her first. She looks up at him with those eyes that have haunted him since he first met her, but he is no longer reminded of what might have been. Instead, he see's in them what could still be.

She falls forward, but he is already there to catch her. He removes his coat and wraps it around her small frame, instantly feeling the raw, bone biting chill on his own skin. It's painful, but he ignores it. Instead, he wonders how she could have possibly survived. He could only imagine what she went through to make it this far by herself.

Lifting her easily into his arms, he can't help but blush. How could she possibly fit against him so perfectly? Lucky for him, it's dark—his burning cheeks are easily hidden. The others surround them now. He meets Varric's eyes and in them, see's an understanding. He can also see the story writing itself in the dwarf's head. But what ending would it have? He looks away when Cassandra speaks, but Cullen barely hears her words above the pounding of his own heart. The Herald's head rests against his shoulder and he touches his cheek against her forehead. She's ice cold. He needs to get her back to camp. Back to a healer. He pulls her in tighter against his body, trying desperately to provide her with the warmth that he knows he cannot give her. He moves quickly but carefully now, the others leading him. He tries not to jostle her too much, but the deep snow makes it nearly impossible.

Not that it matters.

What matters . . . is that she is alive.


	2. Chapter 2

From the moment she wakes, Cullen cannot bring himself to talk to her. She glances his way a few times and smiles, sending his heart racing each time. He returns the smile, however shyly. He thinks she might come talk to him, but then Solas steals her attention. And for good reason. He knows of a place to go. She trusts the apostate, and so for that reason, he does not argue the plan. He is still just relieved that she is alive. He wonders how well she is for travel. Wonders if maybe they should take a day for her to rest. But the soldier and Captain in him knows that emthat/em is not a good idea—nor is it an option. There are many others besides her that need attention. Others who will not make it another night in the mountains. And so they march. He could not put the needs of one woman above the needs of the many.

Could he?

Many died in Haven. Many more died on the trek to Skyhold. But not her. She's strong. Cullen watched as she guided them with the determination of a leader; stopped to help those who needed it with the compassion of a mother; and encouraged many with the inspiring words of a friend. Maybe she truly is the Herald of Andraste. But he cannot think much on it. He has his own duties. He guides his soldiers. They guard the group with their lives. They guard her. He will not fail like he failed her at . . .

 _He would not fail her again._

Inquisitor of the Inquisition. That is her new title if she will accept it. He stands below in the Courtyard and watches as Cassandra tells her the news. Watches as she nervously takes the sword that Leliana offers her. She is unsure of herself, and yet . . . Cullen couldn't be more sure of her. And then he hears Cassandra shouting to him. A simple _Will you follow?_ And a simple answer—yes. That is . . . if the question had been just for him alone. But it's not. He turns to his soldiers. To the men and women who put their lives on the line in order to help others reach safety. The group is smaller now. Cullen knew this. "Will you follow—Will you fight?" The words are powerful. He can see it in the eyes of those who remain. She is their Inquisitor. She is their Herald. She is their salvation.

She is his desire.

A thought cast aside, only to come back to him stronger than before.

He avoids her for thinking such unworthy thoughts. She deserves better than that. He buries himself in fortifying the stronghold, standing at the makeshift table and giving commands to his runners. It's easy to lose track of time when you're doing something you love. But then he see's her and his heart begins to race. He can feel the cold sweat and the crazed butterflies with each step she takes. Stop staring! he chastises himself. With his jaw is locked, he tries to focus harder on what he's doing—but even still, he could see her from the corner of his eyes. She was not moving fast; a leisurely walk down the steps that would bring her right past him. She couldn't possibly be coming to talk to him . . .

He balls his sweaty fists and presses them into the table. Maker, he hoped he looked casual. She had come to a stop and was now standing right next to him. Taking a slow breath, he realize's that she smells like home. _His_ home . . . back in Honnleath. There was a rare plant that grew there that had made the air smell sweet, crisp, and fresh. Cullen swallows as she begins to speaks. Turning to give her his attention, he is surprised to notice that she speaks to him like a friend, not an advisor or Captain. He quite enjoys it, and he can't help but to listen to every word she says with interest. She is unsure of her title—unsure it is fitting. So much she seems unsure of, that Cullen can't help but laugh. He thinks the title is perfect for her.

The more they talk, the more he is starting to relax in her presence. But then it changes. He could see it in her posture and read it on her face.

"How many?" Her voice is soft—sad. His heart crumbles. He does not need to ask her what she means. He knows, and so does she.

"Too many." It's all he can say. But then, losing just one would have still been too many. She is silent. Cullen appreciates the silence, and bows his head in respect. After a moment passes, she speaks again.

"Our escape from Haven . . . it was close. I'm relieved that you—" She falters and looks away. She starts again. "That so many—made it out."

Cullen looks at her in surprise, having caught her slip. His adrenaline is coursing as her cheeks flush. Now it is his turn to blush, though he can't stop the slow smile from playing on his lips.

And then he remembers Haven.

Remembers seeing it buried—thinking she had been buried with it. He remembers the feel of her body in his arms, unconscious and cold. His smile falters—something she catches. Nodding, she turns away . . . but not before he see's the disappointment in her eyes. Confusion and then understanding hits him. Does she think that he does not feel the same? That he wasn't grateful to the Maker that she was standing here now? That he has not replayed the scenes from Haven over and over again in his mind. That if he could have kept her from going out there to face Corypheus while he and the others ran, he would have. His hand snaps forward and circles her wrist, stopping her and spinning her gently back around to him. The contact was like a bolt of lightning striking his skin. The way she turned, he wonders if it is the same for her. She did not pull away. Looking at her, his thoughts became jumbled. His words were always better in his head than spoken. But he had to try.

"You stayed behind . . ." He tries to put as much feeling and emphasis as he can into these words. Tries to make her understand what that was like for him. She says nothing as she meets his eyes. "You could have—" He stops short, dropping his head and expelling a breath. Another thought he does not want to relive. She is alive. She is warm now. He can feel that warmth against his palm. He still has not let go. She still has not made him. His mind is racing. He can't think when she's around. His heart pounds too loud, his adrenaline pulses too fast.

A promise then.

He meets her eyes. "I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word."


End file.
